The dawn of a new year inevitably revives old dogma. A new year is variably portrayed as a “clean slate,” a “fresh start.” It’s also presented as an opportunity to “get it right.”
A new year isn’t “clean,” because it inherits the input of the previous year. A new year is “fresh,” but instantly ages after its debut is exclaimed.
In terms of “getting it right” (whatever “it” is), there’s the pressure of precision. I feel like replacing “getting it right” with: iterating it right.
Whether judged as clean, fresh or as a recurring opportunity to get it right, a year is a variation of continuance. And as our long-adopted calendar system closes and opens a year, each year disappears, quickly.
A year can feel like a day. Or a decade. However time is perceived, each prevailing unit of time is a timely chance to contribute to something—something wonderful.
In the new year, may you spend your time in a manner that feels poetic, with means that feel productive.
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